Playing House
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: It was a two-story yellow colonial in suburban California, and he was only visiting for a week, but fate couldn't leave well enough alone. BJ/Hawkeye, explicit slash content
1. Knocking

Author's Note: This is just a little intro chapter to set the scene, but chapter two will probably be more, uh, involved as it were.

BJ/Hawkeye, a little BJ/Peg

Current Rating: Almost G (which will change quickly, promise)

* * *

Playing House

Chapter One: Door

* * *

The train station meeting had been awkward, but their civilian clothes seemed, perhaps through serving as a constant worn reminder, to keep them firmly rooted in the socially acceptable greetings that had been rehearsed again and again on those same grounds. BJ had picked up one of the other's bags, Hawkeye grabbing the other and a small black case that BJ knew without asking contained the tools of his practice.

"I thought you were on vacation."

"Oh, I am, but you never knew when you're gonna meet a nice girl who wants to play doctor." He smirked, and BJ saw again the humorous spirit he had missed. He didn't want to look too close, though, or he might see what else he knew was there, so, not too close.

That rule negotiated their proceeding interactions. In the car they talked simply about their advancing careers, BJ's being more profitable, but Hawkeye was more than content to help run the practice in Crabapple Cove, which, he might add, was not doing all that bad.

"Besides, I get to know them, you know? And in most cases, I get send them home."

"You do operations?"

"Sure. Some for my patients, at the hospital, but I pull shifts once a week or so there too. Can't get too rusty."

"Nothing worse than a rusty surgeon."

"Except maybe a rusty scalpel."

They shared a smile, but something held them back from taking it up to the laugh out loud level that had so often pervaded their conversations just a few years before. Threading their way through the suburbs, they soon turned into a paved drive. Hawkeye hunched forward to look out the window, taking in the reality of the sunny yellow two story house with its bright window and classical veranda, the landscaped yard and the acre behind it that he knew also belonged to them. He felt, suddenly, like an invader into someone else's world; this was BJ's reality. While there were a myriad of options of what kind of disruption he posed, he was sure he was a threat of some kind. He resolved, not for the first time, to do his damndest not to disturb the tranquil existence his friend had forged for himself.

BJ shut off the engine, and they sat a moment in the silence of the spring day.

"You ready?" he queried.

"Yeah."

They pulled their long limbs from the car, and BJ took the bags from the trunk. Hawkeye still clutched his black case, the worn handled familiar in his hand, contrasting to the new environment and the button down shirt and slacks he had worn. He felt vaguely like a religious fanatic ready to convert the members of community. Nervously he pulled at his collar.

"You look nice," and though he thought the comment slightly inane after he made it, Pierce seemed to take it well, offering a little, nervous smile before replying in his usual manner.

"Just nice? I prefer foxy, fine, brilliant, charming, irresistible, radiant, ravishing," he rattled off the terms that seemed to flow from some interior thesaurus, "take your pick, they're all very _nice_."

He pulled at his collar again as they reached the door.

"Maybe I should've worn a tie."

"I can't picture you in a tie," he set down one of the bags to fish around in his pocket for the key.

"Me either. Maybe heels and pearls."

They caught eyes, shared thoughts of a certain man in a dress obvious to each of them.

"I missed that," BJ said after little pause, the key now moving to the lock. "Someone who knew what I was thinking."

"Me too."

The lock clicked, and Hawkeye was admitted to a world he had read about in letters.

tbc

* * *

This is going somewhere, a rather slashy somewhere, but I'd like to toss in a bit of plot, so tolerate me for just a day or two and I will deliver unto you the promised content. If you still want, that is.

Miko No Hoshi


	2. Looking

BJ/Hawkeye, a little BJ/Peg

Current Rating: maybe PG (and still rising)

* * *

Playing House

Chapter Two: Window

* * *

"Peg?" he called as he shuffled the bags through the door, setting them down before turning to usher in Hawkeye and close the door behind him. "Peg?" he tried again.

"In here," a voice answered from another room.

"Come on," BJ instructed. He paused just long enough to take Hawkeye's black bag, released a tad reluctantly, before leading the way into the kitchen.

Hawkeye recognized her instantly from the pictures, but Peg to him had always been connected with her handwriting, loose script swirling across sheet after sheet of thin paper that had been delivered to BJ on a weekly basis. Her blond hair was tied up in a colorful scarf that matched her powder blue dress, or at least what he could see of it. Mostly it was covered by a floral printed apron that was itself layered with wide swipes of flour. BJ went over to kiss her lightly on the cheek as Hawkeye watched awkwardly. A picture out of Good Housekeeping, he thought, except for the strange man in the stiff shirt watching from across the room.

He didn't catch the tension in Peg's back nor the way BJ pulled away quickly, actions born of two different causes, but not lost on each other. Both chalked it up to the presence of a guest.

"Peg, this is Hawkeye. Hawkeye, Peg."

"Of course," she smiled, bright and genuine. "I'd give you a hug, but I'm a bit dirty."

Hawkeye repressed the instinct to make a comment about that, and BJ wasn't sure if he was or wasn't grateful that the man was editing himself for the family meeting.

"I'll take you up on that later," he smiled in return, shoving his hands in his pocket as they wouldn't be needed for awkward handshake introductions.

"Why don't you two go into the living room? I'll come get you when dinner's done." She turned back to the stove, opening the oven a few inches to check the biscuits.

"Where's Erin?" BJ questioned even as they started out of the room.

"Napping," she said over her shoulder. Both men were a bit disappointed at that. BJ had hoped to immediately show off his daughter, and Hawkeye, slight anxiousness around small children aside, wanted to meet the little girl that so often lit BJ's eyes which the war had tried to dull. She might also have offered a starting point for the almost awkward attempt at conducting conversation back in civilization.

Having exhausted shop talk in the car, they were left sitting in silence in the comfortable living room. BJ positioned himself on one end of the overstuffed gray sofa, discarding the throw pillow that got caught behind his back. Hawkeye took the other end, the middle-cushion distance between them more than had been measured between their two cots in the Swamp. Hawkeye closed his eyes momentarily, turning his head subtly away. He knew the distance had to be there; this was the Hunnicuts' sitting room, with its clean, white walls, soft gray carpeting, and unlit fireplace. This was, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, not Korea.

"This shouldn't be so hard," he heard BJ say. He turned his attention back to the other man who was sitting with his right elbow propped on the couch arm, one leg crossed over the other so that Hawkeye could see the bottom of one of his brown shoes.

"What?"

"Making conversation. We used to talk all the time, non-stop, and mostly about nothing. I don't understand why we don't have anything to say," he explained, looking directly at Hawkeye, being honest. "What's changed?"

"Time and place."

"And us."

"Well, you might have, but don't let the nice duds fool you, I'm still the same me."

"Really?"

"Yep. Uncouth, uncivilized, and completely un-resistible," he offered a cheeky grin that referenced a hundred other comments in BJ's mind.

"Isn't it irresistible?"

"Only if you're a stickler for grammatical propriety."

"I prefer impropriety."

"Good, 'cause that's all you'll get from me. I'm completely improper and im-predictable."

They shared a laugh, and BJ was relieved that the real Hawkeye had chosen to make his appearance for the first time since his arrival. He reached one long arm across the sofa to give his companion a little shove on the arm.

"Drink?" he asked, getting up and going over to a small, marble-topped cabinet.

"Too often."

"Scotch okay? I was going to get the stuff for martinis, but time got away from me."

"Scotch is fine."

They sat and talked and drank. Hawkeye, unusually, kept a close eye on how much he consumed. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass BJ by drinking himself into a loose-lipped stupor before dinner. It didn't take the other long to notice that his friend was putting down the typical quantity of liquor.

"What's up with you?"

"Hm?"

"You on the wagon or something?"

He chuckled, "Just trying to stay out from under it."

"Permanently?"

"Nah. What would life be without a few tire tracks?"

Peg's call to dinner took them into the dining room. They traded compliments and stories, centered mostly around BJ. Erin joined them halfway through, staring hard at Hawkeye as she ate with her diminutive plastic spoon. The meal dissipated, Peg cleared the dishes, and then she lifted Erin away to go giver her a bath, instructing BJ to show Hawkeye to his room and make sure he had everything he needed.

They climbed the carpeted stairs and entered the guest room with its two windows overlooking the back acre and full bed made up with a green duvet and, like the couch, accented by an small array of decorative pillows. BJ lifted one of these in his hands.

"Peg loves these things. We used to just have them on our bed, but they appeared all over the place while I was gone." He shook his head at the seemingly useless bit of fluff and put it back down. "Anyway, guest room, fairly self-explanatory."

"Yeah, I've operated one before."

"Bathroom," he pointed, "Towels are in the closet there, extra blankets too."

"Sure, thanks."

It was awkward again, stiff. Hawkeye was trying not to want what the world seemed to want to give them: a chance for a goodnight kiss. No, he told himself. That didn't happen here; it wasn't a part of here. But they were standing close, just a foot, foot and a half between them. He could feel his hands shaking. Suddenly he turned, he had to, stepping to the window and pressing his hands onto its sill to occupy them before they took hold of something that was not theirs anymore. He missed the way BJ swallowed hard, shoving his own hands into his pockets.

"We can go down town tomorrow. You can see the hospital." He could make only simple sentences, and even these were suddenly a trial.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

"Goodnight then."

Hawkeye turned back from the window to watch him leave, "Night."

He paused at the door, hand on the brass knob. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too."

The door closed softly behind him.

tbc

* * *

AN: I know, I know, I put them alone in a bedroom and then nothing happens…whoopsie! Just kidding. It's coming, promise. I'm already at work on chapter three, and I have the plot fairly well laid out (but I'm always willing to take suggestions!), so the progression should be quick.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Cooking

BJ/Hawkeye, a little BJ/Peg

Current Rating: PG 13, maybe R

* * *

Playing House

Chapter Three: Cooking

* * *

Thanks to jet lag and several restless hours before he went to sleep, the sun was already at full shine when he raised his head off the pillow. Sitting up, he pushed the disarray of his dark hair out of his face and rubbed at his eyes. He blinked the room into focus, brain taking a second to identify the strange dresser he was staring at.

"Well," he pronounced to no one in particular, leaving the thought unfinished as he swung his legs out of bed and stood. He paused momentarily in front of the window, looking thin in his boxers and t-shirt which he was eternally thankful would never again be army-green. No, the top was white, a small pen ink stain towards the hem, and the bottoms…looking down, he noted their cotton design with a lethargic smile--hearts. He couldn't remember if he had noticed the day before.

Tilting his head back, he blinked a few times at the ceiling, cementing his conscious state. Then it was across the room to find the promised towels and into the shower. Later he dressed, hesitant to appear in his worn robe, but forewent the dress shirt in favor of something more comfortable. Deciding the process of waking up had taken much too long already, he opened the door and descended the stairs.

Expecting the lazy Saturday morning activities, he was surprised to see Peg scampering quickly around the kitchen giving orders to BJ. The tall man leaned against the refrigerator offering assurances that he would indeed be fine.

"You won't need any shirts for work?"

"I'm off till Wednesday, dear."

"And you're sure you'll have enough to eat?"

"I know how to order a pizza, besides," he glanced over to their guest, "Hawkeye happens to be an almost tolerable cook."

"Why thank you," he replied easily.

"Oh, Hawkeye!" Peg turned. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go."

"Something I said?"

BJ elaborated, "Her Aunt Janice isn't feeling well, so Peg's gonna go help her out for a few days. Poor woman lives alone, doesn't even have a telephone."

"So how'd she get in touch with you, pigeon-mail?"

"Her neighbor called to let me know," she replied hastily, nudging BJ aside to add something to a piece of paper attached to the refrigerator with a strawberry-shaped magnet. Dropping the pencil in the drawer, she began to hunt for her keys.

"Is Erin staying with us?" Hawkeye directed this to BJ, the more collected of the two.

"Peg's gonna drop her off at her mom's house."

"Oh."

There wasn't much for him to do at the moment, so, positioning himself out of the way in a kitchen chair, Hawkeye watched BJ gather up Erin and her things, handing the latter over to Peg who in the meantime had gotten her suitcase.

"I'll walk you out," he offered, Erin resting on his hip, small arms thrown around his neck. Her blond pigtails bounced with each step he took as he disappeared around the corner. Hawkeye heard the screen door shut against the metal frame.

Peg was leaving. She was leaving him there, alone, with BJ. With a groan, Hawkeye laid his head on the table in front of him. He was no good at resisting temptation; he hadn't had any practice at it. Well, he silently consoled himself, it wasn't as if BJ was going to jump him. That consolation, though, while assuaging his pressing concern of improperly pressing himself upon his friend's life, struck a deeper cord that rang out as disappointment and something very near hopelessness.

No, that wouldn't do any good. He was not going to get all weepy, pining away like some school girl with a crush on her big, strong, well spoken doctor who…no, he mentally cut off that thought. He had resolved this in Maine. He was here to have a good visit with an old friend. He could let his fantasies run wild back at home. It was, after all, much harder to molest someone via telephone.

Hawkeye wrangled his head off of the table just before BJ stepped back in the room carrying a pink sippy cup. He dumped it into the sink.

"Empty," he said, needlessly. Pulling out the chair across from Hawkeye he took a heavy seat. "Want some breakfast?"

"You cook?"

"Not really. How about we grab something at the diner on the way to the hospital?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"I couldn't eat like this anyway."

"Like what?"

"With you sitting way over there."

"Huh?" He wasn't too sure where the comment was aimed, but he instantly sat a little straighter in the chair.

BJ laughed. "You didn't notice?"

"Notice what?"

"Last night at dinner. We ended up sitting on the same side of the table, close, you know, like we used to in the mess tent. Seems only natural, even a year later."

"Yeah," he replied, telling himself to relax, demanding it in fact, "I guess some things never change."

* * *

The hospital was impressive, and the staff was respectful of Dr. Hunnicut and anxious to meet the infamous Dr. Pierce he talked of so often. Hawkeye managed to snag the phone numbers of three nurses while exuding his natural charm and drew the attention of more than one doctor with his discussion of cutting-edge techniques.

"So," BJ comment as they stepped into a room to return an extra white coat to his locker, "I see you still read medical journals."

"Well, I have to. They keep sending them to my house, every month, right along with my nudist magazines; I'm afraid if I cancel one, they'll stop sending the other."

"Work before pleasure?"

"Pleasure before work, or during, or after," he grinned. "Hey, what's that?"

"Hm?" BJ, about to close the locker, opened it all the way instead.

Hawkeye's grin softened into a half-smile, and a familiar nostalgia crept into his eyes. On the locker door, held up by two sloppily torn pieces of clear tape, was a picture of the two of them. The composition was lousy, but they looked happy. Imagine that, happy, arms slung around each other as they stood in front of nothing less than the 4077th latrine.

"Remember that?"

"Of course."

"You staid behind with that kid."

"Margaret and Radar too."

"You made me leave."

"Somebody had to go. Couldn't leave the wounded all alone with Frank." His attempt at joviality fell flat as BJ didn't run with it. He looked not at it exactly, more through it, eyes distant. Hawkeye sat on a nearby bench, staring at the picture, trying to remember where he had picked up the pink parasol he was holding in it and wondering where it had eventually gone to, marveling at the things that slipped in and out of his life in those years.

"I was worried…"

The oppressive silence made its encore appearance after that statement, gearing up both their nerves as they sought something to say. Hawkeye finally managed it, though afterwards he thought he might have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

"Well, you needn't have worried," he lifted his chin in defiance of any suggestion, but then added: "I only groped Margaret a little bit."

BJ paused but decided to take the comment at face value.

"Seriously?" he asked incredulously, sufficiently imitating the tone of a college boy interested in his buddy's exploits.

"Yeah, when the lights went out."

"Huh. I'd say you were lying, but it just sounds too much like, well, you," he laughed.

"You really can't leave me alone with anybody."

"Or anything."

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral."

* * *

They made a pit stop on the way back to the house, not for food, but for something they both thought much more important: booze.

"The real deal," Hawkeye said as he peeked into the brown paper bag resting on his knees.

"Of course, anything's probably better than the rotgut we got from that still."

"Hey, don't insult the still. She asked for so little and gave so much," he said in a mock reverent tone.

"Yeah, so much turpentine."

"That was liquid love!"

They both had to laugh at that, otherwise one of them was going to say what had become the traditional reply. That was neither the time nor the place for a discussion of types and vintages of liquid love. Hawkeye took a breath and turned to stare out the window, watching the trees pass in quick succession, silently reconstructing past conversations and activities that had followed.

BJ's hands gripped the wheel tightly, for just a moment, then relaxed. He glanced at his friend's profile, half-silhouetted against the dusky sky. His sat with his hair flopped down into his eyes, his nose almost resting on the window glass, hands wrapped protectively around their recent acquisition. He was clean-shaven, for once, and BJ found himself curious as to the feel of the left cheek that was presented to him. He wondered briefly of the consequence of reaching across the two feet but focused his eyes back on the road instead.

* * *

While BJ took a lengthy call from the hospital, Hawkeye found himself unable to sit peacefully. A grumble from his belly suggested a productive activity. He surveyed the kitchen, opening random cabinets and drawers and being a nosy guest in general. However, he did locate several critical components and set about proving his skills as a bachelor chef extraordinaire.

The oven was warm against his legs, its inner light revealing several thick slices of garlic bread. Cut and bake, he could do that. Having located the pots and pans under one cabinet, he had chosen two and proceeded to cook noodles and sauce, from a jar, maybe, but complimented by the delicate array of spices he had found on the table: salt and pepper. He stirred it occasionally with a wooden spoon, leaving the utensil to rest on a napkin between uses.

BJ approached this scene of domesticity with a smile, coming to stand close at Hawkeye's left and leaning forward to noisily sniff what was on the stove. He reached out to take the sauce spoon, but hand on his chest pushed him back.

"You'll spoil your dinner," he said sternly, repressing the smile that threaten to ruin the gag.

"But mom," BJ whined, drawing out the o. "It looks good, Hawk. What is it?"

"Lobster bisque."

"Of course."

"Here." Hawkeye took the spoon and scooped a little sauce out of the pot. Holding his opposite hand under it as to not spill any on the yellow kitchen tiles, he lifted it to BJ's mouth. The blond closed his lips around the end of the spoon briefly as Hawkeye pulled it back. He held it in front of him while waiting for the verdict.

"Well?"

"Needs salt."

Hawkeye's brows creased in disbelief, not sure if the other was being serious or simply playing him. Shoving the spoon back into the sauce, he brought it hastily to his own mouth.

"It does not!"

"Yeah, it does." He grabbed the shaker from the table and attempted to add it to the pot, only to be shoved forcibly sideways by the chef. He made another attempt, causing a shuffle but managing to dump a decent amount into the sauce only to once more be displaced, this time by Hawkeye's hip as he stepped defiantly back to assess the damage. Again he tasted it.

"Good work, Beej, there's enough salt in there to kill a fish."

"Fish?"

"You know, those swimmy things that live in the ocean. You know, ocean, big blue thing that our sauce now tastes like."

He wasn't really mad as he turned to glare at the other who was again standing with him at the stove. The wooden spoon was still in his right hand, and he debated giving BJ a swat with it, but then the man smiled at him, with enough of a joking tinge that Hawkeye was instantly wary.

"What?"

"You got a little something," he gestured with his hand to his own mouth.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes and swiped the back of his hand across his lips.

"No, it's," he cleared the few inches between them, raising a hand. They both thought he was going to wipe away the stray bit of sauce, but the hand brushed Hawkeye's cheek instead, resting there, pressing warmly as it slipped down and back to Hawkeye's neck to hold him in place as BJ leaned forward, tongue flicking out, just slightly, across his friend's upper, tasting the flavor of the tomatoes and something more enticing. Tilting his head just to the right, he pressed his lips to Hawkeye's. It was warm and soft but only for the initial instant, then his tongue was pressing; it was inside tasting and searching, trying to rediscover what he had known before. He found it the same, only missing an overlay of gin and olives, and the familiarity comforted a part of him that had been discontent for much more than the length of the other's visit.

BJ's free hand had grasped his wrist, holding the still-clasped spoon out of the way almost as if he was afraid it would come back to hit him. So, when Hawkeye's legs threatened to give way he was left with only a single appendage to offer support, but wrapped around BJ's neck, it stabilized him even as the other man pressed close to lean on his.

But then they had to breathe, and the impromptu world they had created quickly dissipated to let in the reality of the moment-- the soft glow of the overhead fixture, the Hunnicuts' suburban kitchen, and the smell of slightly burnt bread. Parting, they stared at each other, Hawking drawing long breaths and trying to decide where most of his blood had gone. He was read in the face, but another part of his anatomy was vying for the attention. BJ seemed to be working under similar conditions, but having initiated the interaction, he felt responsible for its resolution.

"What are we doing?" Hawkeye asked.

"I . . . I," he straightened his back and pulled his shirt into place; it was wrinkled. "I'm going to get us some drinks."

* * *

tbc

AN: What has BJ done? How many occupants will the guest room hold tonight? Will someone remember to take the garlic bread out of the oven? Tune in next time . . .

REMEMBER: This is in all likelihood moving up to the M rating in a day or so, and on you have to change the rating box in order to see fics of those ratings!


	4. Cleaning

Playing House

* * *

PA Announcements (otherwise known as reviewer's corner):

To Outsider: Thanks!

To Blue 2384: Thanks for putting in the effort to review twice! And for the dialog compliment!

To crazydbzfan87: You don't annoy me at all; actually, the bigger review numbers make me feel important, he he.

To those who have reviewed thus far -- thank you! Giving reviews to fanfiction writers is like giving table scarps to a starving cat. In more appropriate words, it really makes my day to find that people are actually reading this!

BJ/Hawkeye

Current Rating: NC-17

* * *

Chapter Four: Cleaning

As BJ left the room, Hawkeye turned to the stove. He flipped off the heat with more aggression than the small knobs deserved. He rattled the two pots, shifting them off the burners, and, slipping on a flowered potholder, he took the pan from the oven, letting it drop noisily against the stove top. Discarding the potholder, he turned to get plates. The first two cabinets yielded various food items, and he shut them with hurried force. He knew he had seen plates somewhere. Another failure. Another loud closure. Plates, plates, plates, his head repeated, the mantra forcing out any other thought that might attempt to intrude.

Finally locating the perfect stacks of dishware in the right most cabinet near the refrigerator, he took out two of the largest size and set them on the cabinet next to the stove, but then the will to continue seemed to go out of him. His fisted hands pressed on the edge of the cabinet, his back hunched over them, as if he was willing himself to disappear completely. He stared intently at the china pattern, a rose in dusty blue, the same color as Peg's dress. It must be her favorite, he thought. An image of a blue robe that BJ had worn assaulted him, and he wondered for the first time if the article had held some acknowledged link between the two of them. He remembered it as ever-present, tossed about the Swamp, hanging in the shower, shoved onto the shelf in OR, caught under a sweating body on a narrow cot.

He took a breath and was surprised to find that it shuddered out of his body. He shook his head vigorously, trying to get it together before the other returned. BJ had obviously made a mistake, and he had, Hawkeye thought, stopped just in time, using drinks as an excuse to escape the awkward situation. The best thing then would be to pretend it never happened. That was something Hawkeye was in fact excellent at. Lots of things that had happened to him had never happened.

He stood up straight, pushed his hair from his eyes, and, taking a calmer breath, began to shovel generous portions of food onto the plates. He set them on the table, on one side, next to each other, then reconsidered. Separating the two plates, he settled them on either side of the table, then back, then apart again, looking for the world as if he were playing some depleted shell game with only two pieces. Finally he decided on leaving them in the middle of the table and letting BJ decide.

The latter returned baring martinis, one clear glass each hand. Hawkeye looked not at him, but at the shifting liquid in the glasses. Now that looked like salvation, clear drink swishing almost to the rim, as full as possible, with a green olive settled into the gentle curve of the glass, promising if not forgiveness than at least forgetfulness.

"Two of the driest martinis ever made this side of the pacific," he pronounced, settling them on that able. One the same side, Hawkeye noted, only a foot and a half apart. Still, he stood stiffly across the table, wanting nothing more than to lunge for the alcohol but hesitant to come too close to BJ. It's not like he's going to kiss you again: his mind supplied the thought ruefully, but that was the very information that he dreaded. Finally he told that part of him to shut up and sat down to pacify it with gin.

They sat side by side, twisting spaghetti onto their forks and generally trying not to make a mess. BJ talked easily of nothing much, and Hawkeye responded somewhat listlessly, silently commending BJ on his own pretending nothing happened skills.

For his part, BJ seemed fine, and was more genuinely so than Hawkeye. He ate his fill, going back for seconds, and praising his friend's culinary prowess. When the last did not merit a sarcastic comment or batting of eyes in imitation of a rather masculine housewife, he instigated true conversatory tactics: he dredged up the past--in a good way, of course.

"You know what I miss?"

"If you say the food, I'm going to be highly insulted," he didn't look up from his half-full plate where he was using his fork to push the contents from one side to the other, watching the red sauce make patterns against the white and blue and thinking of something less than appetizing.

"No, I'm not that much of a masochist." He took a bite of browned bread as if to prove his point, proceeding to talk around the mouthful. "I miss Margaret."

"Half the army misses Hot Lips."

"Or at least her hot lips," he paused to chuckle at his own clever retort; it was more of a novelty now, born of a skill that he didn't get to use much at the hospital. Hawkeye seemed to bring that out in him. "I don't so much miss the lips, but the fights. Boy, do I miss the fights."

"When we replaced her peroxide with blue dye."

"Remember when he stole her clothes from the shower? She had to run with nothing but a washcloth all the way to her tent."

"Remember when we stole her tent?"

"The look on her face!" They both laughed, at memories of her astonished face when she pulled to a halt in front of the bare bones of what had been her tent, but even more at the hard work and planning that had gone into it. Even Charles helped.

That led to talk of the here and now of the other occupants of the camp. Dinner was finished and dirty dishes dumped into the sink before they adjourned to the living room. BJ switched on the small television, turning the knob to channel four and leaving the volume on low for background noise as they sat on the couch and combined their knowledge. Margaret was still in the army, so was Frank, though no where near each other as far as they knew. Charles was at Boston, succeeding fantastically and no doubt haughtily. Klinger was happily married in Toledo, with a little one well on the way. Hawkeye suggested that if it was a boy they should send it a nice dress.

"And if it's a girl?"

"A shaving kit, of course."

"Why?"

"Well, she's gonna need it if she takes after Klinger!"

Potter was at home, and Radar reported that he had recently acquired two more young horses and was thinking of breaking them himself. The former clerk himself was reportedly dating "a real nice gal"; Hawkeye thought she was a blond, but BJ had heard brunette.

"What about Sidney?" BJ asked without thinking.

"You haven't heard from him?"

"Nope."

"Huh," he pushed himself to his feet, feeling the room sway around him more than he had expected it to. He took BJ's empty glass and padded across the room to refill it for the, uh, well he would call it the seventh time, only for the sake of calling. "I suppose I'm the only one he checks up on."

BJ couldn't see his face, so he watched his taut back and debated if he wanted to push the issue. He decided he didn't. He stretched and settled further back on the couch as the other put the glass, now full, back in his hand. He tasted it, jerking back a bit. He wasn't sure Hawkeye had added anything but gin to the supposed cocktail.

"What about Trapper?"

Batting o-for-two he decided by the look on Hawkeye's face and the way drank deeply, putting the gin away as it were water; BJ was glad he wasn't counting anymore.

"Haven't heard from him."

"Huh. Well, that only leaves one more. What's Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce doing these days?"

Being almost, well, he'd like to say almost, drunk, he found that rather entertaining; the aforementioned, and equally embalmed, Pierce apparently found it confusing. He turned on the couch, bending one knee so that he could shift to face BJ.

"I already told you that."

"No," he raised a finger on his free hand, "you told me about your work. I wanna hear about you." He poked the finger at Hawkeye's chest, barely pressing, just enough to feel the warmth just below the shirt.

"Me? What's there to know about me? No, I suggested we pick a more interesting subject--singers, songwriters, sex enthusiasts."

"I'll take what's behind door number three."

"Uh-oh, that's the booby prize."

"So we are gonna talk about you!"

"Alright, you cornered me. What do you want to know? Wait…I think I need another drink first."

He wobbled again to the bottles, then, with an ingenuity that at that point surprised a rather wasted BJ, brought the gin back with him. He handed it over, made another trip back for the other and then another for the jar of olives. BJ found himself twisted on the couch, his back against the arm, legs folded and his arms laden with glass, bottles, and jar as Hawkeye took a seat facing him again. The dark haired man took the gin, pouring it liberally into his own glass and then BJ's. The vermouth was forgotten as he purloined the jar of olives, settling it between his Indian style legs and popping the lid. Using two fingers, he fished an olive from the jar and plopped it into BJ's glass, then one into his own, then one into his mouth, licking his fingers in a careless way, completely unaware of the stare his was getting and ought to have, by all right's of his previous torments, been relishing.

"Now that," he said around the olive, "is the driest martini in town." He lifted the glass in a toast, but then couldn't think of anything to say.

"To old friends," BJ thought for a second, "and ferret-face, too."

The glasses clinked. After taking a drink, Hawkeye fished out another olive. BJ made a face at him, and taking it out of mouth, Hawkeye them offered it to him.

"I'll pass."

"Suit yourself."

"So, tell me of Dr. Pierce."

"Tell you what?"

BJ seriously doubted he had forgotten where the conversation had been headed prior to the relocation of the alcohol.

"Come on. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm just great. Grand, spiffy, magnificent even."

"Somebody keeping you out of trouble?" And out of your own head, BJ added silently, remembering the far-off looks he had so commonly been forced to interpret as Hawkeye beating himself up on the inside. What had he called it: thinking too much, or was it too fast?

"I resemble that remark." Drunk or not, he was not going to acknowledge that, especially not with Sidney's phone calls recently revealed as a periodic check-up of his sanity rather than friendly chats bestowed upon the company en masse.

"Hm," he said noncommittally, swirling his glass. "You got a girl?"

"Oh, I get lots of girls." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Keep any of 'em?"

"Dad doesn't like me to keep pets."

"Come on. You doing alright? Seriously?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just…nothing, Beej. I'm great, okay?"

BJ nodded. Slowly he placed his half-full glass on the coffee table, next the two bottle and, though he was hesitant to relinquish it, Hawkeye's glass. Hawkeye was blinking at him, suddenly serious, trying to figure out why he was being cut off. He assumed that he had done something, though he wasn't sure what it was. Then BJ was taking the olive jar, plucking it expertly from between his legs, but not without brushing one khaki-clad thigh, rather high up if the tingling sensation now spreading there was any indication.

BJ scooted forward, occupying the middle cushion and staring intently into blue eyes.

"Hawkeye," he swallowed.

"Uh-huh?" His voice was deeper than it normally was, drawing heaviness from his body and from the air around them. BJ leaned forward, his breath warm on Hawkeye's ear.

"Hawk, I…" Then the lips were too close, touching, just there under his ear. Then on his cheek, half kiss and half shaking exhalation of breath. Strong hands gripped his shoulder almost too tightly, but whatever pain was there was swept aside when BJ's lips covered his own for the second time that day. There wasn't any gentleness. Their tongues met as their chests pressed against each other, and Hawkeye's hands touched whatever they could find: face, sides, waist, legs, moving rapidly from one to the other as if it were their last chance to feel it.

But this time BJ didn't stop. When his lips lifted to give them breath they were soon reapplied to Hawkeye's neck, catching a strip of sensitive flesh between them. He applied suction to the place then caught it between his teeth, drawing a gasp and a clench of hands clinging to his forearms. There was something desperate in both their actions, accented greatly by time of certain abstinence and not a little by the alcohol they had consumed.

BJ shifted his weight onto Hawkeye, forcing the other man to recline slightly and attacking his neck further. BJ wanted to move his hands, to get under some of the clothes, to get closer, but Hawkeye's grip on him was too tight; he was pulled close, held suffocatingly near in an awkward, half-kneeling position as he tasted the other, first the skin then the lips again. There was the gin and olives and Hawkeye, and when he pulled away the other made a low whimper that sent heat directly to his groin. He tried to press closer to find contact, but found instead their legs in the way. He pulled back with a growl.

Hawkeye's eyes were closed, his frame tense, and his breath shallow. He started when BJ pulled further away, shaking off his grasp.

"It's okay," the other panted. "I just," another breath, "I can't reach you. Need you."

Hawkeye felt hands on his upper arms, turning him around, his extended too far for him to actually kneel. He leant on the sofa arm, knees sinking into its softness as he felt BJ's warm weight settled across his back. The blond pressed close, laying himself full length against the other, one arm caught around Hawkeye's chest, the other trapped between body and sofa to the right, awkwardly supporting a portion of his weight.

He shifted himself upward, and Hawkeye's breath hitched as he felt BJ's hardon pressing through the fabric of the man's pants, nudging his bottom and eliciting a low moan as the contact was achieved. BJ began to rock against him, shaky motions turning into more powerful thrusts against his clothed backside. It was all so familiar, an act mimicked from practice sessions on a narrow cot that wouldn't allow intricate acts of intimacy.

Hawkeye was aware of his own erection, trapped against the sofa, but finding minimal contact from the overstuffed cushion. Ever a man for instant gratification, he wanted to reach down a hand, but his folded arms were caught over the couch arm and BJ's press too tight and too desperate to allow a moment of readjustment. Still, it felt good to have the man against him, to hear his broken breathing against ear, legs over and between his own, and especially to know that BJ wanted him so badly.

"Hawk," he swallowed air, talking without stopping the pounding motion of his lower half, "the drinks….I can't…"

"S'okay," he managed. He wanted to say something more encouraging, but his mind was too occupied by excitement and its physical incarnations. He settled for reaching back, grazing BJ's sweating face with his hand as the other grunted, gave a last thrust, and buried his head in the heated crease of Hawkeye's neck while he convulsed against him.

They lay there a moment before BJ recovered his will to move and sat back on his heels, one leg still between Hawkeye's two. Hawkeye remained where he was, wondering what would happen, now and later, the throbbing organ between his legs nearly consumed by worry over the morning after. Nearly.

"Sorry," BJ said. The word cut through Hawkeye, twisting his stomach. BJ saw him tense, rethought his phrase, and smiled. Instead of instantly making the correction, a rather happy and decided BJ thought to, as Hawkeye might have done, make a little game of it. He grabbed the doctor by his waist, dragging him up onto his own knees, just in front of and almost on top of BJ on the couch. Hawkeye refused to turn to even half look at him, and BJ had to lean close to look around the other's shoulder, reaching for Hawkeye's chin, and finally managing to see his face. He was instantly regretful.

"God, Hawk, no. I didn't," he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, Hawkeye's back to his front. "I just meant I was sorry that I, uh," he laughed a little, "couldn't restrain myself."

"Oh," it sounded almost nonchalant, but Hawkeye, torn by hurt, relief, and need, couldn't find it in him to make conversation.

"Oh? That's all I get?" BJ laughed again, happy. "Well," he decided out loud, "I think I owe _you_ something."

His arms unwrapped from Hawkeye, hands running down the length of the other's arms then up his thighs. He rubbed one brazenly across Hawkeye's bulging crotch while the other worked at the button. Zipper undone, BJ fished into the heated pocked of the boxers with his right hand to capture the pulsing organ there, wrapping his fingers around its length as he used his left hand to push the fabric down just enough to free Hawkeye's penis.

Hawkeye moaned as BJ stroked his length with fluid motions, applying damp kisses to the back of his neck. He couldn't seem to catch his breath as skilled hands tugged him from base to tip, thumb slipping occasional across the sensitive top of his erection, pausing to catch the vicious liquid gather there, smearing it slightly down the side.

Hawkeye felt the pressure consuming his body, pulling on each muscle, winding him tighter. He was on the edge, but even though his body willed it, his overburdened mind refused to let it happen. His hands splayed against the couch, tense and shaking.

"Please," he asked, "Beej." He exhaled the name, back arching slightly, making him press against the other. BJ pressed back against him, holding his weight, working faster and with more pressure.

"Come on, Hawkeye," BJ encouraged. "I got you."

Then Hawkeye stiffened, gasping in wordless pleasure as light flooded his senses and wet warmth spurted out from him to cover BJ's hand. BJ gently milked the organ, patiently waiting for Hawkeye to return to the world of functioning humans. He did so with a sigh, body sagging, lax against his friend's.

"Beej?"

"Yeah?" He shifted to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket, and finding his more interesting parts still uncomfortably encapsulated in damp pants and in need of a hot shower, applied it to his hand instead, withdrawing it from Hawkeye to clean it.

"I don't know if I want to know. . ." He paused to accept the proffered piece of cloth, wiping at himself haphazardly and doing up his pants. "But, in the morning," he turned to look at the other, and, taking refuge in an old act, queried with a smile, "You wanna pay me now and send me on my way, sailor?"

"Not on your life." BJ kissed leaned forward to kiss him. And while Hawkeye felt the comfort radiating from the touch, a small part of his brain insisted with disconcerting aptness that BJ was still drunk.

tbc

* * *

AN: According to Microsoft Word, I made up two new words this chapter. Wanna guess which ones? Thanks for reading, and look for more updates soon!


	5. Rising

Playing House

AN: I'm actually enjoying writing this, and I have two more chapters written, but I'm trying to root out most of the grammatical errors before I post them. This week I learned how to spell "stethoscope" . . .

* * *

PA Announcements:

To crazydbzfan87: The dialog has been a real challenge, so I'm glad it turned out alright! I really appreciate the time you took to review, thank you.

* * *

Chapter Five: Rising

BJ carefully extricated himself from the sleeping form on the couch, gently but hurriedly untangling his shirt from Hawkeye's somnial grip.

The next loud ring of the phone invaded the house, seeming to search out every quiet corner and echo there. BJ swore under his breath, placing Hawkeye's hands on his own regularly rising chest. He turned to stumble through the dim hallway, catching a glimpse out the window. Dawn had barely begun, the night-sky just touched by aquamarine that wouldn't blossom into full color for another half hour.

The phone ejected another insistent ring just before his hand got to it. He leaned a shoulder against the wall as he grabbed the plastic receiver and pressed it against his ear.

"Hunnicutt," he said simply. He listened to the hurried apology from the other end, then to the recitation of stats as he rubbed tiredly at his face.

"We'll have to go in again.

"No, I want to do it.

"Give me thirty minutes."

The handset clicked as hung it up, coiled cord swaying slightly. Pushing himself from the wall, he started up the stairs. He showered and dressed quickly but methodically, pausing only twice: once to remember where he had left his stethoscope and once to scribble a quick note onto a yellow pad. He ended up leaving both on the table.

* * *

The sun pricked at his eyes as he rolled slowly over, facing its light through slitted lids. His clothes were twisted around his body, making them tight and awkward as he stretched. He yanked at his shirt to turn the wrinkled cloth right again, but it would require getting up to be truly rearranged, and he wasn't sure it was worth the effort.

Looking at the ceiling, he took a moment for self-evaluation, debating if any complaints merited rising from the sofa where he had apparently spent the night. His mouth tasted of stale gin, and he could certainly do with a toothbrush. His hair also needed a brush, and a shampoo; actually, most of him probably needed a washing. His bladder too was making a plea for attention, a testament to the quantity of rather alcoholic liquid he had consumed with BJ. BJ. That was what was missing from the sofa; that was the reason he needed to get up.

But he paused, briefly, in the warm wash of late morning light. If he got up, he had to face BJ, sober. He wasn't sure if the adjective applied to BJ or himself; either way, it wasn't pleasant. And though Hawkeye relished the night's moments, the thought of a cold reception brought any thoughts of a continuation to a sudden halt. While he would like to anticipate a happy BJ assembling breakfast for them in the kitchen, his mind produced instead the image of a guilt-ridden married man, sitting with slumped shoulders, nursing a headache and praying that his wife would forgive him for his lapse in judgment.

Well, Lapse in Judgment, you better clean things up, his conscience poked at him as he drug himself into a sitting position. With a sigh he pushed himself off the sofa, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around. It didn't seem quite right that nothing had changed after their obvious disturbance of the suburban expectations. The only indications were the quickly-disappearing depression in the sofa, a crumpled white handkerchief on the floor, and an assortment of bottles and glasses on the side table.

He reached down, hearing his back crack, and grabbed the handkerchief, shoving it in the pocket of his pants. The bottles he put back under the dry sink cabinet then screwed the lid back on the olive jar before taking it along with the glasses into the kitchen. The olives he placed in the refrigerator, the glasses into the sink along with their dinner dishes.

"BJ?" he called into the house, but even before he spotted the note, he was fairly sure the other wasn't there. The note was simple: a hospital call, emergency, he would understand, back by noon.

He would have to wait, then, for a resolution to the doubts buzzing in his head. Linking his hands, he raised them over his head in a prolonged stretch, attempting to shed some of the nervousness that had already accumulated in his body. That one motion, of course, hardly accomplished the feat.

First he cleaned himself, and returned, shaved and showered, back downstairs. Though he was far from a natural housekeeper, he managed their few dishes without incident. The plates and glasses he put away, but the sippy cup confounded him, and he was forced to leave it sitting on the counter. Then he wandered back to the living room, noting that there was no trace of what had occurred; the kitchen reported the same. If BJ wanted to deny the whole incident, he now easily could. Yes, Hawkeye tried to rally his sense of friendly duty against the depressing gloom that was settling, it was the right thing to do. And, if BJ chose not to deny it, well, he raised an eyebrow and rewarded himself with a little smile. The smile was more strained as the day proceeded with no appearance of his host.

Breakfast came to him in the form of lunch, a sandwich crafted out of leftover meatloaf from Peg's dinner. After eating, he washed the plate. Then he had a drink and washed the glass. Again he searched for a place to rightfully store away the sippy cup, but it was no use. He ended up at the kitchen table once more, nervously tapping his fingers against the wood. Hawkeye was never good at waiting, and he was even less skilled at being bored. Boredom brought mischievousness out in him; it was like an inevitable chemical reaction.

* * *

The pizza box was warm on his arm as he approached the back door, and he was glad to sit it down on the table. His note was still there with, of course, the forgotten stethoscope that he hadn't missed until he was well on his way to the hospital. He picked up the device as he went to the steps.

"Hawkeye?"

"Here," came a muffled reply from one of the upstairs rooms, and BJ went up.

It had occurred to him about six hours into his impromptu shift at the hospital that leaving Hawkeye Pierce alone in one's home might not have been the safest of ideas. The man had been largely behaving himself, but BJ carefully watched for booby traps as he ventured down the upstairs hall.

"Marco," he called.

"Polo," came the answer.

BJ turned the corner to stare into his office. Hawkeye sat behind his desk, feet propped casually on the edge, BJ's good pen in one hand and his date book in the other. BJ made a silent bet with himself that every drawer had been carefully gone through, and the bookshelves had probably gotten a once-over as well. Not that it mattered; the only thing he had to hide was currently sitting behind the desk.

He leaned in the doorway.

"What'cha reading?" he asked casually, as if Hawkeye had tried to hide it in the least.

Suddenly, Hawkeye clutched it to his chest dramatically, "That's none of your business."

"No?"

"No, this happens to be a very private appointment book," he stated with all the seriousness he could muster. He began to flip the pages with extraordinary flare but soon frowned. "No soirées? No black-tie affairs? No balls?"

Hawkeye lifted an eyebrow in challenge, but BJ took the high road, "How will I ever meet my prince charming?" He stowed his stethoscope on a shelf and plopped into a still leather armchair to the right of the desk. "Besides, I don't have any glass slippers."

"You'd have to leave one of your big clown shoes."

"Can't I just leave my card?"

"BJ Hunnicutt, M.D., mediocre damsel?"

"Mighty debonair?"

"Don't kid yourself, doctor," he dropped his feet from the desk, laying the date book on its thick oak surface and leaning over it as he flipped the pages. "Hey, Beej?"

"Yeah?"

"What's wrong with Peg's aunt?"

"Why?" He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about Peg at the moment; in fact, he was sure he didn't.

"You marked all the days Peg's gone to see her. It's a lot. Chronic?"

"She's old, Hawk. Probably lonely too. Who knows, maybe she exaggerates to get the company."

"You never go?"

He shrugged. "I offered, but Peg said it wasn't necessary."

"She may need a doctor."

"Funny thing about doctors," he returned, repeating his wife's words, "they have them in Sacramento, too."

Only mildly interested in the current subject, Hawkeye put the book down and turned his full attention to BJ. There was a sudden darkening of his eyes, and BJ felt an inevitable withdrawal approaching. He routed it off.

"Don't."

Hawkeye lifted his hands in protest of his innocence, "What?"

"Don't clock out on me." He stood again, feeling the familiar tiredness of feet that had carried him around on tiled floors all day. Convincing them to move, he circumnavigated the desk and, with a hand on each arm of the desk chair, leaned over his friend. Hawkeye shifted back, his own hands curling around each other in his lap, but his eyes were drawn with magnetic force to BJ's.

"I'm sorry, Beej," he offered.

"Well, I want you to know that I'm not." He nodded solemnly, needing Hawkeye to know that he wasn't joking. He leaned closer, arm on either side of the other. He watched Hawkeye's nervous eyes flicker and retreat to the floor, and realized, suddenly and with regret, that he wasn't helping anything by practically trapping him in the chair. Relaxing his arms, he let them drop to his sides.

"Hawk," he paused to lower himself down beside the other, propping himself on one knee on the floor like he was about to make some awkward proposal. He was trying to get Hawkeye's eyes back on him. "I'm pretty sure I knew this was going to happen. I knew when I called you, when I invited you here. I think maybe I knew even before that."

"You aren't that kind of person, Beej." He said it with such conviction that the tense smile he had plastered on his face didn't quite cover the honesty.

"Maybe I wasn't, before, but," he placed a hand on Hawkeye's thigh, fingers unconsciously kneading the taut muscle there, "these last months…even Peg noticed."

A slight flinch at the name, and a silent look after.

"I missed you, you idiot." He shoved the other playfully.

"I missed you too."

BJ stretched up to press his lips to Hawkeye's and felt the other's hands grip his shoulder, a little too tight. He pulled away for an examination.

"What about Wednesday? What about that?" His voice was suddenly aggressive, but the undercurrent of pain, past and anticipated, wasn't lost on BJ.

"I don't know," he admitted, sighed, and stood. For moment, Hawkeye thought he would walk away, but he turned back to him and offered a hand up, "But I do know that your dinner's getting cold." He waited, hand outstretched, more than a six dollar dinner hinging on its acceptance. There was a laden pause, then Hawkeye's soft hand slipped into his own, their palms locking together as BJ tugged him to his feet.

tbc

* * *

AN: So it continues. A little more plot this chapter, but I'm thinking (depending on the responses I get) that I'll write the first 'real' sex scene into the next chapter. Opinions?


	6. Wanting

BJ/Hawkeye

Chapter Rating: NC-17

* * *

Playing House

Chapter Six: Wanting

* * *

The kitchen table was littered with greasy napkins and a few empty soda cans, the remnants of the pleasant, if informal, dinner they had shared. They were laughing, not for the first time, at some antic that occurred in a place that no longer existed: the Swamp.

"Our own little collapsible piece of hell."

"Maybe it wasn't so…I mean, the war was awful, it was hideous, it was," he fished for words to describe the horror, but, finding none to suffice, settled on what they had already decided. "It was hell. But the Swamp…"

BJ nodded in agreement to the unspoken reminder of time they had spent together there.

"Not that I'm willing to swap my full sized bed for an army green super slim single sleeper any time soon."

"Speaking of bed," BJ stood and leaned over to pluck a few of the crumpled napkins from the table, "I have no intention of sleeping in my clothes again. I'm going up and get changed."

He deposited the paper in the trash as Hawkeye collected the cans and did the same. Glancing at his watch, the latter noted that it was just late enough to consider going to sleep and just early enough to think about not. The fact that BJ was waiting for him to go upstairs suggested the second option.

They parted at the top of the carpeted stairs, and Hawkeye went into the guestroom. The moon illuminated the room with its bluish glow, furniture casting gray shadows across the floor. His hand rested on the wooden edge of the door. It didn't seem right to close it completely, yet it didn't seem appropriate to leave it gaping while he changed. Selecting the middle road, he pushed it halfway to and went over to the bed. He turned the small knob on the bedside lamp, and it obediently spilled a diffuse circle of warm, yellow light. Kneeling, he drug his suitcase from beneath the bed.

The zipper made a quiet whoosh as he slid it open and flipped back the upper half to reveal his assortment of clothes, pressed into confinement like so many multi-colored sardines. He slipped his hand between two pieces, digging in the very bottom to pull out a soft pair of blue pants, a few white strips breaking up the solid color and marking them as distinct from scrubs. They looked new, unworn, and a tag flopped from the waist as he closed the suitcase, stood, and tossed the pants onto the bed.

He nudged the suitcase back under the bed with his foot before grasping the hem of his shirt and curling it off his body; it slipped over his head, leaving his hair ruffled, and was dropped to the floor and shifted under the bed with the same technique that had been applied to the suitcase. His pants faced similar treatment, and he stood momentarily in his plain cotton boxers and t-shirt, all white cloth and thin limbs, pondering face shadowed by the lamp light.

He noted with an almost surreal detachment the fluttering of his stomach, rarely acquainted as he was with this type of nervousness. Then he debated the pants. He had packed them in case he might be called upon to appear in front of Peg or Erin in his sleepwear, but BJ, well, he had seen him in less. But appearing half-dressed might make it seem as if he expected something. Not that he didn't. But his expecting was not expectation and came with no obligation. BJ might not expect that same thing. But he might.

Hawkeye was in the midst of his waffling when he heard the soft close of a door elsewhere. The pants were tossed summarily beneath the bed before he grabbed his robe from its place on the slender bedpost and shrugged it on. He was just tying the belt when BJ sauntered into the room.

He was barefoot, and Hawkeye suddenly felt foolish in his socks. Apparently he was over thinking the situation, and as a result he was overdressed for the occasion. BJ made no pretense as he walked into the room in his t-shirt and boxers, making no attempt to hide the bottle of lotion he held in his hand. Hawkeye stood with his back to the bed, watching silently as BJ placed the bottle of the nightstand.

Then he smiled, and Hawkeye slipped easily back into himself as the nervousness fled. He reached to snag BJ around the neck, wrapping the other in his arms and drawing him into a gentle kiss, slowly and searchingly bringing them together. They touched: hips, chests, and tongues, entwining with one another.

BJ's lips moved down his chin, making small, wet noises, tormenting him with soft brushes before latching on to the sensitive flesh at the crook of Hawkeye's neck, forcing the other to drop his head backwards to allow access. His released a quick hiss as teeth met skin and BJ worked to leave a new mark, hands all the while descending, gripping Hawkeye's bottom, and dragging their lower halves as close as possible. Hawkeye ducked his head and brought BJ's lips back to his own as they ground against one another.

The knot of Hawkeye's robe and more generally the entire artifice of clothing soon became a bothersome hindrance to their folding into one another. Both thought of extricating themselves to remedy the situation, but it was another long minute before BJ managed to physically accomplish the task by taking a step backwards, hands still keeping a tenuous hold on the other's waist. They slid around to the robe's slightly off center tie; slowly he pulled one thick thread then another, finally brushing his hand through the simple cross of the belt and letting it fall loosely. The panels of the red cloth followed, falling to the side to reveal a strip of white underclothes and, to BJ's amusement, a fledgling arousal that laid heavily against the thin cloth of Hawkeye's boxers. The fact that he was in a mirrored state only made it more enticing.

But for the moment, and with his desire for satisfaction fighting tooth and nail with his want to touch the other, BJ avoided the swelling nether regions. He slipped his hands beneath the folds of the robe, running flat palms around Hawkeye's trim waist, feeling the pleasant heat under the t-shirt. He stepped closer to slide them up the other's back, then down again, a slight caress over his bottom, then up his chest. Hawkeye watched silently, hesitant to break the soothing exploration the blond was conducting. The hands paused on his shoulders, then with a skilled flick, sent the robe down. It clung, momentarily, awkwardly around his elbows, and he shook his arms to deposit it on the floor, a red, puddled frame for the socks he hadn't managed to take off.

Unable to still himself for very long, and already having applied this skill in the preceding moments, Hawkeye returned to action. Skillfully he removed BJ's shirt, struck, for just a second, then relieved, when there were no dog tags to jingle down once the cloth was pulled free. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of BJ's boxers, peeked inside playfully, and raised his eyebrows suggestively at the owner of the prize. It was almost enough to make BJ blush, and if that didn't call the flush into his cheeks, Hawkeye's next action certainly did.

With fluid motion, the dark haired doctor slid to his knees, taking BJ's underwear with him. He helped the other step out of them before settling back on his heels and taking BJ's penis in hand. He stroked it upward, coaxing it to hardness. He leaned close, left hand resting on BJ's thigh, and licked one of the balls near his face, sending a shiver through the other that made him smile.

There were many rewards for being a good lover, but Hawkeye favored hearing his own name spilled from trembling lips. Licking his own lips, he pressed them against the head of BJ's cock, pausing, just a breath, before sliding them down around the organ.

"Yes," BJ closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping his hips still and Hawkeye moved in and out, probing with light brushes of his textured tongue. With his free hand he worked BJ's sac, a finger slipping occasionally, but not quite by accident, back to brush the sensitive flesh behind it. He worked with enthusiasm, increasing his pace as one of BJ's hands caught in his hair, tugging lightly at first then pushing him suggestively foreword. Taking the hint, Hawkeye swallowed once before taking in as much of BJ as he could manage, feeling the fullness invade the back of his throat and concentrating on not gagging.

"Hawkeye," BJ released the name to the room between heavy breath. He felt the cool air brush his shaft as the other pulled back, then the wet heat as he came in again. There was the hot pleasure, but he also tried to catch the more subtle motions: the light hand on his thigh, the soft brush of lips against his skin as Hawkeye swallowed him, the sight of it all. He leaned foreword to watch and tried unsuccessfully to repress a shudder of delight.

Then he pulled away.

Hawkeye looked at him carefully, sparing only a glance for his now stiff erection before staring up at his face. BJ smiled again in reassurance. He knew the pattern Hawkeye was working off of; it was the Tokyo hotel room model. Getting BJ off one time before they began usually made for a longer session in the end. But it had been a long day, and though he would have been delighted to finish, he wasn't sure he could get it back up quick enough for the other's liking. Hawkeye's libido was a thing of amazement, and more than once he had found himself if not struggling then trying very hard to keep pace with it.

Stooping, BJ took an easy hold of Hawkeye's biceps and brought him to his feet, capturing his lips somewhere in the process. He pressed his lean, naked body against Hawkeye, the soft cotton cloth brushing his tingling skin and other even more responsive areas. He reveled in the feel, thrusting against Hawkeye's hip as his tongue probed the other's mouth, mimicking in parts the act soon to commence. It was only the need to breath that parted them, and then not very far. They stood close, chests touching as they rose and fell in synchronized rhythm. BJ found his hand tangled in the soft strands of Hawkeye hair and paused momentarily to brush it out of the other's eyes.

"You're going gray, you know." He commented casually, though there was an underlying regret, not for the hair but rather the events he knew lay behind it. He touched the threads again, watching the white catch in the lamplight.

"Pierces are like wine, the older the better." It was a set response; he really didn't want to think about his premature sign of age, nor was he fond of his lover's concentration on it. He pulled BJ's hands away, placing them on his waist instead then looking up at the other with a smirk, "And I happen to be a very fine vintage."

BJ took that as an invitation to taste. He worked his way downward, first with a kiss to the temple, then the very tip of the nose, the lips, carefully as so to not get off track, then one on the chin that caused the other to laugh. Heavier, more open kisses were bestowed on Hawkeye's neck, and BJ felt the hand resting on his arm clench with pleasure as he worked to darken the mark he had left the night before.

With a little shove, he put Hawkeye off balance enough to sit him on the edge of the bed. The mattress springs squeaked quietly as he laid back and BJ crawled up to settle on top of him.

"We're sideways," Hawkeye commented between kisses, adding emphasis by wiggling his feet as they hung over the edge. "Tricky things, beds, more room--" a kiss "--more room than a cot, but just enough to get you confused--" another "--I fell off a bed once, well, more of table than a--"

Deciding that Hawkeye was not to be silenced by merely occupying his lips, BJ hooked an arm under his ribcage and moved to shift them both so that they lay longways in the bed. Knees on either side of Hawkeye's hips and elbows planted on either side of his head, BJ leant in for a deep kiss, brining, almost at the same moment, his groin down to meet the other's. Feeling more than hearing the soft gasp against his lips, he changed his plan of action. Shifting his weight more to his left side, BJ reached his right hand between their bodies to stroke Hawkeye through his underwear. This evoked a moan and enticed him to work his hand beneath the waistband and fondle the heated organ directly. He rolled it beneath his palm, fingers reaching back to brush the soft underside of Hawkeye's balls while his tongue worked in the other's mouth.

BJ shifted his hand in an attempt to remove the other's boxers, but the motion resulted in a tangle rather than bare skin. He thought momentarily their owner would laugh at him, but Hawkeye only lay panting as he drew back to remove the garment. He worked his way back up the lean body before him, settling between Hawkeye's legs and gently brushing his lips on the man's thigh, then his hip, just below the hem of his t-shirt, the stray arm that lay across his chest, then back to the lips. Shifting closer, he pressed their hips together, naked groins meeting with a spark that took their breath away. BJ rocked subtly against him, careful to keep their turgid lengths aligned.

Hawkeye's legs parted further to give him room, and the motion, though subtle, brought the need to the fore. Again he retreated from their close embrace, pressing himself up to his knees and snagging the lotion from the nightstand. He paused there, kneeling with the pink pump bottle in his hand, looking.

After he caught his breath, Hawkeye offered him a smile, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it under his head.

"Comfortable?" BJ asked.

"Yes, Jeeves. That will be all," he waved his hand in a motion of dismissal, trying to look casual. He laced his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach; the erection resting on his thigh either refuted or enhanced the attempt, BJ wasn't truly sure.

"Well then I'll just be going." He shifted slightly to one knee as if he would get up, but slender fingers caught his wrist before he could truly move.

"I'd prefer it if you were coming."

There was a silent beat; they considered the phrase.

They both burst into laughter, BJ nearly doubled over.

"That was bad, Hawk."

"I know," the other managed between the light kisses now being applied to his lips.

The giggling died down as the kisses once again took precedence, the occasional bumping of their lower extremities goading them into more serious action. Sitting back on his heels, BJ depressed the pump of the pink bottle and the distinct smell of baby lotion permeated the room as he filled the palm of his left hand before laying the bottle on the comforter. Coating the first two fingers of his right hand, he reached between Hawkeye's bent legs which lay, a bit awkwardly, spread around him.

Hawkeye watched the cream colored ceiling as a cool finger probed his entrance. It circled once before it slipped inside, simultaneously familiar but strange; his body gripped it by instinct, and he relaxed by taking deep breaths and filling his mind with images of BJ. The blond carefully added a second finger, stretching the ring of muscle by scissoring the two. Turning his wrist just slightly, he waited, then, with little warning, he folded his fingers upward to graze the textured spot of Hawkeye's prostate. The other jerked beneath him.

"Okay?"

"Very okay," he returned, somewhat breathless, eyes opening as he craned his neck to see what he already knew BJ was doing. Catching his eyes, BJ smiled, holding his stare as he added another finger and began to pump them gently in and out. His own desire pulsed in time inside him, and he swallowed as he tried to ignore his ever-tightening erection. Concentrating, he massaged his lover's spot, hanging on the hums and exhalations that he from he drew him.

"Come on, Beej," Hawkeye suggested, the slow motions pleasurable but building into frustration at the speed that teased but refused to give release.

"Hm?" BJ pretended not to understand. His free hand came up to lift Hawkeye's erection and wrap around it. He pumped the organ in time with his slow, deliberate thrusting of fingers, drawing his hand from base to tip without looking. He watched Hawkeye's eyes.

"BJ!"

"What?"

"Please?"

A smile broke out on the man's face, and it struck Hawkeye as momentarily odd that it was not half-hidden under a cheesy mustache. The thought was cut off, however, as the bed squeaked and BJ inched closer. His hands retreated from Hawkeye, one finding purchase on the mattress just over the surgeon's shoulder and the other fumbling again with the lotion bottle. Quickly now, he coated his own penis as it strained out between his legs, refusing to be suppressed any longer.

Drawing Hawkeye's legs closer up around him, he left a slick trail of lotion on one thigh, but neither noticed. BJ looked down into the small triangular gap, the only space that existed between them, containing only white bed linen and his own flushed length. Taking hold of himself, he guided the head of his erection to Hawkeye's opening.

"Easy," he said, but who the comment addressed was not clear. Slowly he used his slick fingers to press himself inside, just an over an inch, then he felt Hawkeye's muscles clamp down in resistance. Hesitant to release his cock and let it slide out completely, BJ shifted his other hand so that the back of it rested against Hawkeye's cloth clad shoulder. "Relax."

"Trying," it sounded a little sarcastic, but the emotion was born of a need to hurry that BJ keenly felt.

He pushed forward again, still slow, another inch past the tight ring. Hawkeye hissed a little, just a quick intake of breath through his teeth.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," said through the same clenched teeth as his right hand came up to latch onto BJ's wrist. BJ shifted the hold so that their fingers entwined, giving Hawkeye assurance and himself more balance.

"We don't have to--"

"Oh yes, we do. You're not getting out of this, mister," he smiled, wriggling his hips just a little, pressing himself onto BJ.

Skeptical of the affected ease, BJ continued with caution, ultimately freeing his other hand and using slow thrusts of his hips to bury himself fully. He leaned over Hawkeye, breathing air that seemed too hot in his lungs as his body, primed by his entrance into the other, threatened to finale before the play was over. Summoning restraint and images of his third grade teacher, he moved in and out, testing with shallow thrusts. He looked down at Hawkeye and, upon making an observation, offered a bit of advice: "Breath."

His chest heaved suddenly, and he laughed as he expelled the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Oxygen had taken a backseat to the contemplation of the feeling of being filled, more than bodily, by BJ; a certain searching he had felt was satisfied. It was, he thought, like having the first glass of good gin after working a double shift.

His laugh seemed to have released them both, and BJ began to move in earnest, sliding slickly in and out in an increasing tempo until they both rocked with the motion. Feeling Hawkeye shift his hips upward to meet his forward movement, BJ took a moment to readjust their position, pulling the other's legs over his shoulders. He offered a knowing smirk before plunging forward.

"Beej!" Hawkeye cried out as pleasure shot through him when BJ's cock hit his prostate directly. He was given little time to descend from the pinnacle as BJ brushed it again, and again, picking up the beat of the blood that pumped in his ears. The antique bed squeaked in time.

The blonde's restraint was waning. A thin sheen of sweat coated his body, his arms trembled with effort, and he pressed even closer with each increasingly desperate thrust.

"Oh god," BJ breathed as he felt the release catch him, a spring wound tight and suddenly released as he thrust in and up, spurting into his lover with each contraction of his frame.

There were a few seconds of bright nothingness, but even the returned reality of sweating bodies pressed together increased his delight, and he lifted himself off Hawkeye's chest to smile brightly as he freed the other's legs from their folded position around his own shoulders and slipped his softening penis from the doctor's body. As his wits lazily gathered themselves from their happy stupor, he noted that one of the other surgeon's hands had crept down to wrap around his own cock, still stiff against his abdomen. Snatching it by the wrist, he fixed its owner with a grin.

"Impatient," he accused, releasing the appendage to to use both hands to push the fabric of the white t-shirt up, making it wrinkle around Hawkeye's chest. There was no reply save for the reflexive spasm of the organ as he took it in his palm. Hawkeye was close, tight, pushing into his touch. It wasn't the time for teasing, and BJ took to the task with all the grace of a surgeon. He was, after all, good with his hands. Even strokes, firm and quick, applied over hot skin created a friction that seemed to please. Hawkeye's eyes closed, his teeth catching momentarily on his lip before he remembered that he didn't have to be quiet this time.

"Good, Beej," he exhaled.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Not exactly witty banter, but reassuring. It struck some primitive masculinity in BJ to be told he was a good lover, and he applied himself to the task with fervor, keeping his hand in time as he leaned forward to take Hawkeye's lips in a possessive kiss; he squeezed, just a second, and reveled in the gasp against his mouth before moving down to Hawkeye's marked throat. He went straight for the nerve, hand picking up speed as he hovered, then, suddenly, bit down.

Hawkeye cried out, maybe his lover's name, maybe some approximation, as his body tensed and he spilled himself over BJ's hand and onto his own stomach. His fingers made indentions as he gripped BJ's shoulders, trembling as the waves of shuddering satisfaction moved over him, while BJ stroked him through it and watched the white strands make sticky puddles on heated flesh.

When it was done, BJ pulled him close, regardless of the mess, and guided him back to thought with gentle kisses. He returned the gesture languidly, hand absently resting on BJ's arm. Hesitant to move away, but knowing Hawkeye was probably uncomfortable under his hot weight, the blond rolled to his side as Hawkeye fished around to find something to clean up their mess. Less concerned, BJ went to wipe his hand on the comforter, finding it caught instead by the dark haired doctor. Hawkeye lifted his eyebrow before leaning forward to lick the back of BJ's hand, watching carefully for the other's reaction. Though it seemed to surprise, he couldn't quite read in what direction the surprise tended so he sat up, pulled his t-shirt off, and used it instead. Releasing BJ, he folded the cloth to wipe himself down before tossing it from the bed.

He turned back to find the other staring at him.

"What?"

Instead of speaking, BJ drew him back down to bed, leaning over him to brush his disordered hair back into place with a few sweeps of his fingers. Hawkeye took a breath in anticipation of speech but was cut off by a finger across his lips. He smirked against it as BJ settled down beside him, resting his head on Hawkeye's arm and letting his finger trail down to the other's chest where it remained, tapping out a slowing, simple rhythm only they could hear.

-tbc-

AN: Whew. Well, I completely scrapped those chapters I had written and decided to take this as it, uh, comes…sorry, I couldn't help myself. Hopefully the next update won't take so long. Please let me know what you think; shall we have more plot? more sex? or perhaps just some rousing conversation?


End file.
